


Blossom Under Kindness

by dustbottle



Series: Andreil: Into The Future [3]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew Minyard Has Feelings, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Post-Canon, Scars, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: After Neil’s first year as a professional Exy player, Andrew and Neil spend their summer together in Columbia. There are good days and bad days. Today is a good day.





	Blossom Under Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on this beautifully fitting quote from Gabriel's Inferno by Sylvain Reynard: _“You blossom under kindness, don’t you? Like a rose.”_
> 
> This is a sequel (of sorts) to [missing you (is all i am)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12742830) and [Minyard-Josten: A Rivalry For The Ages](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11214843), but it can be read separately. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: non-explicit references to past abuse, references to scars and past injuries, scar worship

It’s summer in South Carolina; the air outside is warm and close, heavy and sticky with humidity. The house itself is blessedly cool in the middle of it, still and indifferent in a way that is almost reassuring. Andrew wakes up and doesn’t immediately get out of bed, his mind quiet and clear as he stares up at the familiar ceiling. He wants a cigarette, but he doesn’t feel like moving, his limbs heavy and utterly relaxed against the blankets; the need is easily ignored. He’s been trying to cut back, anyway. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

They’ve been here for six days already, just the two of them at the house in Columbia, sharing space and time and a life; pre-season practice isn’t set to start for another two weeks. Though it’s still early, the other side of the bed is empty; Neil has already gone on his morning run, undeterred by either the stifling heat or the fact that he’s supposed to be on vacation, predictable as clockwork. Andrew remembers him leaving their bed an indeterminate amount of time ago, remembers the shift and dip of his weight on the mattress. He hadn’t been fully awake, no longer as tense as he once was.

It’s peaceful, being together like this, away from prying eyes. Even after almost a year, the public is still obsessed with their so-called rivalry; if anything, interest has only grown with the news of Neil signing with the Rebels next fall. Reporters are falling over themselves to speculate about the reasons behind the high-profile move, each guess more outlandish and incorrect than the last. Andrew doesn’t really care either way, hasn’t bothered to address the rumours all season, but he likes the way Neil snorts when confronted with the fevered debates, the way he looks torn between amusement and incredulity.

Andrew opens his eyes at the distant slam of the front door. Neil doesn’t come upstairs right away, and Andrew pictures him shedding his running shoes, drinking some water as he starts the coffee machine. Mundane, dull things that have no business filling him with warmth the way they do, but alas – Andrew may not believe in fate, but it appears he has no choice in the matter.

Neil appears silently in the doorway, holding two coffee mugs and looking at Andrew with a tiny fond smile, barely there yet undeniable; he’s flushed with heat and exercise, looking calmer and more balanced the way he always does after a run. He doesn’t come closer, and Andrew doesn’t speak, still feeling quiet and oddly contemplative; he carefully searches Neil’s face for signs of hidden discomfort before letting his gaze drop to his legs, strong and sun-tanned in the god-awful disco running shorts Nicky gave him. He ignores the first faint stirrings of arousal as easily as breathing, acknowledging them and letting them pass.

Neil follows the line of his gaze and breathes out a laugh before coming over. He waits for Andrew’s nod before kissing him good morning, smelling like sweat and exercise and warm summer air. Andrew lingers on the kiss without quite meaning to, and Neil smiles against his mouth; when Andrew nips at his lip in wordless retaliation, Neil laughs and opens to him, sweet and warm and utterly trusting, so soft that Andrew can barely stand it. He clenches his hand in the bedding for a moment before he finds his voice.

“You reek,” he says directly into Neil’s mouth, trying to keep his tone even and dismissive and mostly succeeding; Neil just laughs again, standing up and pulling his shirt over his head in a fluid movement. He drops his shorts and underwear on the bedroom floor on his way to the bathroom, and Andrew tears his eyes away from the curve of his ass with some difficulty; he distantly wonders if Neil is doing this deliberately or if he’s being his usual oblivious self.

He idly considers following Neil into the bathroom, imagines the pleasing contrast his auburn hair would make against the bathroom tiles as he let himself fall apart under Andrew’s insistence, trusting and easy and so _sweet_. He turns the idea over in his mind, calm and careful through the dull throb of arousal in the pit of his stomach, and eventually discards it; he is comfortable where he is, and no longer fuelled by rage and desperation the way he once was. They have time.

Andrew blinks up at the ceiling, still pleasantly drowsy as he tracks the slow dragging rhythm of his heartbeat against his ribs, the steady ebb and flow of his breathing. Almost in spite of himself, his thoughts keep straying back to Neil. He reaches down to touch himself, light and lazy, without real intent, and closes his eyes.

This is what Neil has done; this is what Neil has become. A touchstone. An anchor. A compass, always pointing north. Neil has worn him down, has wormed his way under Andrew’s skin and made himself at home, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, Andrew has let him. Andrew isn’t in the habit of lying to himself, and he knows none of this would have happened without his consent – for one thing, Neil wouldn’t have allowed it, and that bone-deep knowledge is enough to send fire thrumming through his veins, fierce and bright and alive.

Some part of him still wants to be angry, still wants to hate Neil for breaking through his apathy and making him vulnerable, but he just isn’t anymore. Somewhere along the line, the anger disappeared, and it disappeared for good. Neil is a force to be reckoned with, but so is Andrew, and they are both equally affected by this – caught up in each other’s gravity, helpless but unafraid.

The longer this thing between them lasts, the more Andrew knows there is no coming back from this – not for him. Not for Neil, either, not really – though he would probably keep going like the runner he will always be, he would be hollow underneath the mask, all dulled edges and lethal with it, directionless and dangerous. Andrew knows all this like he knows the stats of every Exy player in the league, or the weight of the gearshift in his hand, or the sound of his name on Neil’s tongue – absolute truth, etched permanently into the folds of his unforgiving, infallible mind. It is a bitter truth, but it no longer tastes like defeat. Bee would smile at that and call it progress; Andrew doesn’t call it anything at all.

The shower cuts off with a groan of pipes, and Andrew stills his hand. Neil walks out into the bedroom a moment later, naked save for the towel around his waist, a cloud of hazy steam billowing out behind him. He’s flushed pink from the heat of the shower, scars on display and water droplets glittering distractingly on his shoulders. His eyes find Andrew’s immediately, and Andrew _wants_ , his simmering desire suddenly almost enough to choke him.

“Come here,” he says, and Neil does. He climbs in next to Andrew without touching him, looking over at him with bright eyes.

“Hey,” Neil says, smiling in that way that always makes Andrew’s traitorous heart skip a beat. He just hums in reply, shifting closer, and watches the way Neil’s face lights up. When he leans in, Neil says “Yes” before he can ask. Andrew kisses the smooth freckled curve of his shoulder, lingering on the raised scar tissue there; he is quietly satisfied when Neil’s breathing hitches audibly, already so affected. He moves on to suck a row of careful bruises into the warm skin of Neil’s neck, feeling the blood rush rapidly under his tongue as he soothes the sting. He inhales the scent of body wash and warm skin and _Neil_ , and feels completely safe.

Andrew shifts up on his knees and pulls his sleep shirt off over his head, revelling in the way Neil’s eyes darken as they rove over his newly exposed skin. “I want to put my weight on you. Yes or no?” he asks, and Neil nods eagerly before he even finishes the question. Andrew moves to straddle his hips, unsurprised to find Neil already hard against him; Neil breathes out a shaky exhale and closes his eyes as he fights to stay still. It’s amazing how responsive Neil is to him, always so open with whatever he’s feeling when it’s just the two of them in their bed, the polar opposite of his wariness everywhere else – a study in contradictions, exasperating and endlessly intriguing.

Andrew leans in close enough to touch but doesn’t at the last moment, pausing with his mouth barely an inch from Neil’s; he sees Neil swallow thickly and tracks the slow bob of his Adam’s apple, committing it to memory for the thousandth time. When he looks back up Neil doesn’t hold his gaze, obviously distracted; his focus keeps dropping to Andrew’s lips like he just can’t help himself. Andrew lets it happen three times before he relents; cupping Neil’s face in both hands, he finally closes the distance.

It’s the kind of kiss that breaks open the sky, honest and all-encompassing. Neil sighs into it but doesn’t make a move to touch him, always so absurdly mindful of his boundaries. Andrew taps his wrist once and Neil brings his hands up to tangle in Andrew’s hair, gently cradling the back of his head. Andrew shifts to deepen the kiss, licking into Neil’s mouth with something close to hunger, closer to greed; Neil whimpers and follows his lead, and suddenly it’s not nearly enough. Neil would never ask for anything that Andrew isn’t willing to give; Andrew knows it, and he wants to give him everything.

“You can touch me,” Andrew breaks away to say, ignoring Neil’s disappointed whine at the temporary loss of contact, “everywhere above the waist.” Neil’s hands go immediately to his shoulders and stay there, warm and firm and safe. Andrew hums and leans back in to draw Neil’s bottom lip into his mouth, giving a little stinging bite before letting go. Neil takes full advantage of their proximity, darting up to drag lightly chapped lips across a particularly sensitive spot on Andrew’s neck, gently teasing, and Andrew doesn’t bother to suppress his shiver.

Neil grins as he leans back, smug and altogether too pleased, and his grin only grows wider when Andrew rolls his eyes. “Neck fetish,” Neil reminds him breathily, completely undeterred by his glare; he breaks off on a satisfying gasp when Andrew bites down on the sensitive skin over his collarbone. “Andrew,” he breathes out, sounding choked and halfway to overwhelmed; his hands clutch at Andrew’s shoulders without moving from their position, still unshakeably consistent even like this. “Neil,” Andrew replies mockingly, and immediately contradicts himself by pressing a soft kiss to the scar curving away from the base of Neil’s throat, just because he can.

Andrew moves to kneel in the space between Neil’s legs and runs thoughtful hands down his sides, taking his time to appreciate the pretty flush extending all the way down to his heaving stomach. Bending down, he mouths a meandering path down Neil’s chest, tracing the familiar pattern of old hurts and crisscrossing scars, lasting evidence of a broken boy’s fundamental will to live. He teases at a pebbled nipple and Neil cries out, sensitive, one hand falling away from Andrew’s shoulder to twist into the sheets; Andrew reaches out to grab it, entwining their fingers as he continues to drive Neil out of his mind.

Andrew never thought himself capable of softness before Neil. He still isn’t really, not naturally, not like other people are, but he wants to be soft with Neil, wants to kiss the constellations of freckles scattered across his ruined skin, wants to hold him together with steady hands and a fluttering heart, so he does. He grazes his teeth over Neil’s trembling chest and Neil moans and arches into it, his breath spilling thickly out of him. He looks dazed, wrecked, desperate and shaking with it. He looks _glorious_ , and lucky was never a word Andrew associated with himself, but maybe he should reconsider.

When Andrew moves on to mapping out the ridges of Neil’s abdominal muscles, lingering on every patch of torn skin and every puckered scar, Neil’s eyes fly open to focus on him, glazed and dark with need. “I want–” Neil pants, and doesn’t continue, sucking in little hitching breaths and hanging onto Andrew’s hand like a lifeline. “I know,” Andrew replies simply, because he does. “Still yes?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer, and Neil nods and moans like his voice wants to give out.

Andrew shifts to wedge a knee between Neil’s legs, and Neil whimpers low in his throat and ruts down immediately, tossing his head back, beautiful and unashamed. Seeing him like that, clamouring to be touched, sends a visceral bolt of arousal through Andrew, reverberating up and down his spine; with the blood rushing in his ears and his thunderous heart pounding against his ribs, he feels devastatingly alive.

Moving lower, Andrew takes a second to collect himself. He breathes in slowly and pauses, waits for Neil’s eyes to meet his. When they do, they are wide and dark and desperately blue. Neil is nearly frantic with need, breathing fast and seemingly on the verge of tears. His cock is flushed and straining towards his stomach where the towel has fallen away, precome beading at the tip. But still, like always, Neil knows what he needs before he can ask for it; he squeezes Andrew’s hand, reassuring and anchoring them both, and Andrew understands without words.

Dipping his head, he licks a firm stripe along Neil’s cock, smirking when it jumps at the touch; Neil huffs out a half-laugh, breathless and frustrated yet unbearably patient, and Andrew burns and burns with the hot weight of this strange, never-ending longing. He lets the tension build for one more drawn-out moment, feeling the way it presses on his skin and tugs on something low in his gut; then he exhales, and leans in.

When he takes Neil into his mouth and swallows around him, Neil chokes on a sob, driven beyond words. Andrew holds him down with one hand wrapped around his hip, but it isn’t really necessary; Neil, for all his contrariness, has always been remarkably good at staying still for him. Andrew watches him closely as he takes him apart, meticulous; watches his teeth dig into his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood, watches his muscles go taut with the strain of pleasure, tracks the tear sliding noiselessly into his hairline. Through all of it, Neil holds onto his hand like holding them together is the most important thing he’ll ever do; his hands, littered with scars and burns and callused and rough from years of handling Exy racquets, are more of a home than Andrew could ever have imagined finding anywhere. 

Andrew shifts against the sheets in search of some form of relief, relishing in the tiny slivers of friction his movements elicit through the thick fabric of his track pants. He feels hot and itchy with want, his own arousal washing over him in rippling waves of hazy insistence. Neil affects him in a way he no longer needs nor wants to deny; the warm weight of him is familiar and utterly welcome on his tongue.

Andrew used to enjoy the act of blowing someone because it offered a sense of detachment, of physical distance to underpin the impenetrable emotional barriers already in place, but of course Neil was the exception to that like he was to everything else. With Neil, sex is a full-body experience; Andrew often feels like the intimacy of it swallows him whole, mind and body and heart completely caught up in the way Neil melts under his touch.

Andrew lets himself get lost in it, immerses himself in the steady presence of Neil, throat working as he gently coaxes him to the edge. The syrupy, half-choked noises Neil is making send electricity sparking down Andrew’s spine; desire curls in his belly, liquid hot and familiar. It doesn’t take long before Neil sighs shakily and squeezes his hand in warning. “Andrew–” he breathes, overwhelmed, and moans hoarsely when Andrew hums around him instead of pulling away. He only manages to hold off for a few seconds more before spectacularly breaking, his face crumpling and all tension bleeding out of him as he pulses into Andrew’s mouth. Andrew works him through it and then pulls off, swallowing and licking his lips almost absently as he takes a couple of seconds to catch his breath.

Neil brings their clasped hands up to his lips and kisses Andrew’s knuckles, one at a time, his eyes bright and impossibly soft. Andrew huffs quietly and crawls back up Neil’s body, dropping a line of kisses from his hip all the way up to the jut of his collarbone just because he can. He reaches up to brush a thumb across Neil’s lower lip and watches as Neil sucks the tip into his mouth, wet and warm and welcoming. Andrew feels his groin tighten in automatic response and curses under his breath, and Neil smirks as he lets his thumb slip out. “Do you need…?” Neil asks, a half-formed question, and wiggles his free hand suggestively; Andrew kisses his mouth to shut him up, and tastes the sharp edges of his smile.

Andrew lets go of Neil’s hand and shifts, pulling his track pants down just enough for him to finally wrap a hand around his aching cock, and holding himself up over Neil with the other. He works himself quickly, efficiently, just this side of too rough; Neil holds his wrist in a loose grip, moving with him and whispering fervent encouragement into his heated skin.

There’s no way he’ll last – not when warmth is already pooling low in his belly and blooming between his ribs, suffusing his entire being. When Neil leans in to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses along the side of his neck, Andrew is _done_. Stars explode behind his eyes as he lets go, coming into his hand with a strangled grunt. Neil kisses him through it, unthinkingly, unshakeably gentle, and takes his weight when Andrew lets himself sag against him.

Most days, Andrew no longer needs to be alone in the aftermath of getting off; they come down together, waiting for their breathing to even out and their racing pulse to slow. Andrew allows a few moments of full-body contact, reassuring now instead of terrifying; then he rolls off and to the side, wiping his come-stained hand on Neil’s discarded towel. He wants to smile when Neil pulls a disgruntled face at that, but doesn’t. Instead he turns his head and meets Neil’s clear-eyed gaze.

Neil is looking at him with a mix between affection and something resembling awe, loose-limbed and pliant the way he only ever gets after sex. There is more trust in his eyes than Andrew knows what to do with; he resists the old urge to push Neil’s face away. “Staring,” he grumbles, and Neil’s answering smile is wide and unguarded, lighting up the room. “I know,” he says happily, and then, certain, “You like it.” Andrew rolls his eyes but doesn’t reply beyond that, and Neil laughs out loud, probably taking his lack of a denial as confirmation **–** he wouldn’t be entirely wrong, so Andrew doesn’t bother to correct him.

The silence between them stretches comfortably, mellow and alive with warmth. When Neil reaches out to him again, he pauses at the last moment, a wordless offer; Andrew takes him up on it, bridging the remaining distance to tap his thumb lightly against the smooth burn mark on Neil’s cheek. Neil’s entire face softens at the touch; he looks young and earnest and impossibly open, and Andrew may not feel capable of wanting many things but he always wants Neil.

Neil is soft skin over tempered steel, an inferno wrapped in ice and unyielding stone. Neil is pure determination and stubborn resilience, something ripped apart and stitched together and somehow still unflinchingly whole. Neil is the most trustworthy runner and the most honest liar Andrew has ever met. Neil is not nothing; Neil is _everything_. And Andrew knows, and knows, and knows. So when Neil looks over at him and smiles, brilliant and hopeful like the rising sun, Andrew looks back and thinks _Yes_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!


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